From thelaughofmedusa By Helene Cixous

 Men have committed the greatest crime against women. Insidiously, violently, they have led them to hate women, to be their own enemies, to mobilize their immense strength against themselves, to be the executants of their virile needs. They have made for women an antinarcissism! A narcissism which loves itself only to be loved for what women haven't got! They have constructed the infamous logic of antilove.

We the precocious, we the repressed of culture, our lovely mouths gagged with pollen, our wind knocked out of us, we the labyrinths, the ladders, the trampled spaces, the bevies—we are black and we are beautiful.

We’re stormy, and that which is ours breaks loose from us without our fearing any debilitation. Our glances, our smiles, are spent; laughs exude from all our mouths; our blood flows and we extend ourselves without ever reaching an end; we never hold back our thoughts, our signs, our writing; and we're not afraid of lacking.

What happiness for us who are omitted, brushed aside at the scene of inheritances; we inspire ourselves and we expire without running out of breath, we are everywhere!

From now on, who, if we say so, can say no to us? We’ve come back from always.

It is time to liberate the New Woman from the Old by coming to know her—by loving her for getting by, for getting beyond the Old without delay, by going out ahead of what the New Woman will be, as an arrow quits the bow with a movement that gathers and separates the vibrations musically, in order to be more than her self.

I say that we must, for, with a few rare exceptions, there has not yet been any writing that inscribes femininity; exceptions so rare, in fact, that, after plowing through literature across languages, cultures, and ages,” one can only be startled at this vain scouting mission. It is well known that the number of women writers (while having increased very slightly from the nineteenth century on) has always been ridiculously small. This is a useless and deceptive fact unless from their species of female writers we do not first deduct the immense majority whose workmanship is in no way different from male writing, and which either obscures women or reproduces the classic representations of women (as sensitive—intuitive—dreamy, etc.)

Rãp3 Jok3 by Patricia Lockwood

. 

Rãp3 Jok3

by Patricia Lockwood

  Th3 râp3 jok3 is that you w3r3 19 y3ars old.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that h3 was your boyfri3nd.

Th3 rap3 jok3 it wor3 a goat33. A goat33.

Imagin3 th3 rap3 jok3 looking in th3 mirror, p3rf3ctly r3fl3cting back its3lf, and grooming its3lf to look mor3 lik3 a rap3 jok3. 'Ahhhh,' it thinks. 'Y3s. A goat33.'

No off3ns3.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that h3 was s3v3n y3ars old3r. Th3 rap3 jok3 is that you had known him for y3ars, sinc3 you w3r3 too young to b3 int3r3sting to him. You lik3d that us3 of th3 word int3r3sting, as if you w3r3 a pi3c3 of knowl3dg3 that som3on3 could b3 d3sp3rat3 to acquir3, to assimilat3, and to spit back out in diff3r3nt form through his goat33d mouth.

Th3n sudd3nly you w3r3 old3r, but not v3ry old at all.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that you had b33n drinking win3 cool3rs. Win3 cool3rs! Who drinks win3 cool3rs? P3opl3 who g3t rap3d, according to th3 rap3 jok3.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is h3 was a bounc3r, and k3pt p3opl3 out for a living.

Not you!

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that h3 carri3d a knif3, and would show it to you, and would turn it ov3r and ov3r in his hands as if it w3r3 a book.

H3 wasn’t thr3at3ning you, you und3rstood. H3 just r3ally lik3d his knif3.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is h3 onc3 almost murd3r3d a dud3 by throwing him through a plat3-glass window. Th3 n3xt day h3 told you and h3 was tr3mbling, which you took as 3vid3nc3 of his s3nsitivity.

How can a pi3c3 of knowl3dg3 b3 stupid? But of cours3 you w3r3 so stupid.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that som3tim3s h3 would t3ll you you w3r3 going on a dat3 and th3n tak3 you ov3r to his b3st fri3nd P33w33’s hous3 and mak3 you watch wr3stling whil3 th3y all got high.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that his b3st fri3nd was nam3d P33w33.

OK, th3 rap3 jok3 is that h3 worship3d Th3 Rock.

Lik3 th3 dud3 was compl3t3ly in lov3 with Th3 Rock. H3 thought it was so gr3at what h3 could do with his 3y3brow.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is h3 call3d wr3stling “a soap op3ra for m3n.” M3n lov3 drama too, h3 assur3d you.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that his booksh3lf was just a row of pap3rbacks about s3rial k!ll3rs. You mistook this for an int3r3st in history, and laboring und3r this misappr3h3nsion you onc3 gav3 him a copy of Günt3r Grass’s My C3ntury, which h3 n3v3r 3v3n tri3d to r3ad.

It g3ts funni3r.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that h3 k3pt a diary. I wond3r if h3 wrot3 about th3 rap3 in it.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that you r3ad it onc3, and h3 talk3d about anoth3r girl. H3 call3d h3r Miss G3ography, and said “h3 didn’t hav3 thos3 urg3s wh3n h3 look3d at h3r anymor3,” not sinc3 h3 m3t you. Clos3 call, Miss G3ography!

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that h3 was your fath3r’s high-school stud3nt?—?your fath3r taught World R3ligion. You h3lp3d him cl3an out his classroom at th3 3nd of th3 y3ar, and h3 l3t you tak3 hom3 th3 most b3at-up t3xtbooks.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that h3 kn3w you wh3n you w3r3 12 y3ars old. H3 onc3 h3lp3d your family mov3 two stat3s ov3r, and you drov3 from Cincinnati to St. Louis with him, all by yours3lv3s, and h3 was kind to you, and you talk3d th3 whol3 way. H3 had chaw in his mouth th3 3ntir3 tim3, and you told him h3 was disgusting and h3 laugh3d, and spat th3 juic3 through his goat33 into a Mountain D3w bottl3.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that com3 on, you should hav3 s33n it coming. This rap3 jok3 is practically writing its3lf.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that you w3r3 fac3down. Th3 rap3 jok3 is you w3r3 w3aring a pr3tty gr33n n3cklac3 that your sist3r had mad3 for you. Lat3r you cut that n3cklac3 up. Th3 mattr3ss f3lt a sp3cific way, and your mouth f3lt a sp3cific way op3n against it, as if you w3r3 sp3aking, but you know you w3r3 not. As if your mouth w3r3 op3n t3n y3ars into th3 futur3, r3citing a po3m call3d Rap3 Jok3.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that tim3 is diff3r3nt, b3com3s mor3 horribl3 and mor3 habitabl3, and accommodat3s your n33d to go d33p3r into it.

Just lik3 th3 body, which mor3 than a concr3t3 form is a capacity.

You know th3 body of tim3 is 3lastic, can tak3 almost anything you giv3 it, and h3als quickly.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that of cours3 th3r3 was blood, which in human b3ings is so clos3 to th3 surfac3.

Th3 rap3jok3 is you w3nt hom3 lik3 nothing happ3n3d, and laugh3d about it th3 n3xt day and th3 day aft3r that, and wh3n you told p3opl3 you laugh3d, and that was th3 rap3 jok3.

It was a y3ar b3for3 you told your par3nts, b3caus3 h3 was lik3 a son to th3m. Th3 rap3 jok3 is that wh3n you told your fath3r, h3 mad3 th3 sign of th3 cross ov3r you and said, “I absolv3 you of your sins, in th3 nam3 of th3 Fath3r, and of th3 Son, and of th3 Holy Spirit,” which 3v3n in its total wrongh3ad3dn3ss, was so compl3t3ly sw33t.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that you w3r3 crazy for th3 n3xt fiv3 y3ars, and had to mov3 citi3s, and had to mov3 stat3s, and whol3 days w3nt down into th3 sinkhol3 of thinking about why it happ3n3d. Lik3 you w3nt to look at your backyard and sudd3nly it wasn’t th3r3, and you w3r3 looking down into th3 c3nt3r of th3 3arth, which play3d th3 sam3 r3d 3v3nt p3rp3tually.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that aft3r a whil3 you w3r3n’t crazy anymor3, but clos3 call, Miss G3ography.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that for th3 n3xt fiv3 y3ars all you did was writ3, and n3v3r about yours3lf, about anything 3ls3, about appl3s on th3 tr33, about islands, d3ad po3ts and th3 worms that a3rat3d th3m, and th3r3 was no warm body in what you wrot3, it was 3ls3wh3r3.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that this is finally artl3ss. Th3 rap3 jok3 is that you do not writ3 artl3ssly.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is if you writ3 a po3m call3d Rap3 Jok3, you’r3 asking for it to b3com3 th3 only thing p3opl3 r3m3mb3r about you.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that you ask3d why h3 did it. Th3 rap3 jok3 is h3 said h3 didn’t know, lik3 what 3ls3 would a rap3 jok3 say? Th3 rap3 jok3 said YOU w3r3 th3 on3 who was drunk, and th3 rap3 jok3 said you r3m3mb3r3d it wrong, which mad3 you laugh out loud for on3 long split-op3n s3cond. Th3 win3 cool3rs w3r3n’t Bartl3s & Jaym3s, but it would b3 funni3r for th3 rap3 jok3 if th3y w3r3. It was som3 pussy flavor, lik3 Passionat3 Mango or D3stroy3d Strawb3rry, which you drank down without qu3stion and trustingly in th3 h3art of Cincinnati Ohio.

Can rap3 jok3s b3 funny at all, is th3 qu3stion.

Can any part of th3 rap3 jok3 b3 funny. Th3 part wh3r3 it 3nds?—?haha, just kidding! Though you did dr3am of killing th3 rap3 jok3 for y3ars, spilling all of its blood out, and t3lling it that way.

Th3 rap3 jok3 cri3s out for th3 right to b3 told.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that this is just how it happ3n3d.

Th3 rap3 jok3 is that th3 n3xt day h3 gav3 you P3t Sounds. No r3ally. P3t Sounds. H3 said h3 was sorry and th3n h3 gav3 you P3t Sounds. Com3 on, that’s a littl3 bit funny.

Admit it.

Abolish the patriarchy2

 

Abolish the patriarchy

 

Feminist dialectics

 

Women need revenge?

Women need revenge, because of their lack of ability to have revenge! What form this revenge takes is not important! They just need revenge because of something or another! Don't ask for what! Are you a biggot!? Come on! I am asking you a question, that is to say that I wish to smash your mind into my own! Just let women get revenge, against something or another! So yeah!
 

Philidelphia metoo

 

Why feminism is needed